Razors, Romance, and other R words
by Fiona Vanyel
Summary: After the Headless Horseman case, Ichabod Crane accepts a summons to London to aid in solving several murder cases. He gets more than he bargained for when he meets a very alive Mr. Todd. A VERY rocky romance ensues. Sweeney Todd/Ichabod Crane.
1. Chapter 1: Rape

**A/N...**

**WARNING: **This tale will likely feature graphic violence and sex, slash-style. Okay, the violent sex is a definite.

**Disclaimer:**I do not own Sweeney Todd, or Ichabod Crane. I'd like to, as both are freaking gorgeous, but I do not. I don't own their respective movies either, though I do have two horses. Both are a little too pale to be the horseman's mount, however, and quite harmless. Unless you happen to be a dog (or goat, as it were. There _was_ an incident...).

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**Chapter 1: _Rape_**

This was NOT what he'd planned on.

Coming to London to aid in solving several mysterious murders? Yes, that had been part of the plan. Apprehending the suspects, figuring out the real killer, and putting him behind bars had _certainly_ been part of the plan. Ending up in a crazed barber's bedroom at razor-point had not.

Ichabod Crane was a well-mannered gentleman - from the Americas, they said. He was reported to be one of the best constables money could buy - or not buy, as some said. The man had recently solved a supposedly impossible case in a tiny town called Sleepy Hollow. Rumor had it the case had involved something of witchcraft, but that was only rumor, mind you. Regardless, it was his expertise that had gotten him called to London to solve a similar murder.

From Ichabod's own perspective, however, the story was a mite different.

Yes, he'd recently solved the Sleepy Hollow case. That business with the Headless Horseman - ugh. It gave him the chills, it did. He'd been terrified out of his wits, and without the help of Miss Katrina Van Tassel, it might never have been solved for all his fainting. Thank goodness that hadn't made it into the papers, nor had it wound its way to London. If it had...well, he probably would _not_ have received the position in London. Then again, considering his current predicament, that might have been a good thing.

The handsome, flighty gentleman hadn't come to London exclusively because he'd been bidden there, though. After the settlement of the Headless Horseman case, he and the young, ravishingly beautiful Katrina had moved to New York, where they'd both hoped for a new start. He had been smitten with the lovely woman, finding her irresistible and himself unable to resist granting her every whim. He'd intended upon proposing to her, actually, when the right moment arose.

It never did.

Katrina Van Tassel proved to be a more fickle woman than he ever could've imagined. Shortly following her arrival in New York, the lady had begun to get out and about, meeting and socializing with people. Her winsome looks and sweet smile had gained her much admiration...and one particular man who'd taken note of her happened to be quite winsome himself.

This handsome, mysterious gentleman was newly arrived from London himself - a Mr. Frederick Abberline. The detective had left that grand city and traveled to the Americas following an unsuccessful attempt to apprehend a villain by the name of Jack the Ripper, and the subsequent murder of a lady he fancied. Well, she hadn't been precisely a "lady" - the woman had been one of the "unfortunates," as they called them in London. In New York, such a woman was termed as what she was - a whore. Detective Abberline had actually discovered the identity of the villain, but due to an overdose of several drugs shortly thereafter that should have killed him, failed to retain the information in his own mind.

Katrina, of course, knew nothing of this. She merely knew the man's charm and wit, and the sad air that hung about him like a cloak. She was drawn to him, and the two grew close very, very quickly. Ichabod, being the trusting and adoring man he was, knew nothing of this. All he knew was that Katrina was spending increasingly more time out and about, and wasn't home as often when he came to call.

The news of the engagement struck him like a blow.

When Katrina Van Tassel and Detective Frederick Abberline announced they were to be married, Ichabod Crane was devastated. He could hardly believe it...and could do nothing but congratulate them with all the cheer he could muster. Her choice broke him, crushed him. He'd never suspected for a minute... He supposed it was the other man's more outgoing, worldly nature that she adored so much. He simply wasn't what she wanted.

It was thus that when he was invited to London to help solve the case Abberline had left behind, along with several other possibly linked disappearances of random men, Ichabod Crane jumped on the opportunity. He'd been looking for just such a position, an excuse to get away. He simply couldn't deal with the hand life had dealt him of late.

So the constable bid the happy couple a (supposedly) fond farewell and made his way to London. There he was presented with the evidence and immediately sent out on his case. He'd been there several weeks already, searching about for the causes of the murders and apprehending several criminals along the way. He truly was an exceptional lawman...primarily due to his recent inclination to throw himself into his work so that he could not _think_ about what had happened in the recent months.

When he'd stumbled across the barbershop atop an abandoned pie shop, he'd noticed something suspicious right away. A few days of watching the place (in secret, of course) had revealed the less-than-forthright comings and goings of the barber upstairs. He'd noticed too that often people entered the barbershop and didn't exit...unless they did it under cover of night, which was highly unlikely, given the circumstances and the dangers of London streets after nightfall.

This, then, was the chain of events that had led him to this barbershop, poking around when he thought its proprietor to be out. He'd found nothing too suspicious for a bit...until he discovered a single razor missing from the case that held all the others. (Though when he'd opened the case itself, the naive, innocent-minded man had suffered quite a shock. Those razors had naked women on them! The horror! Nevermind that they were overlaid with silver.)

"Mm..." He'd glanced at the razors once more, being _sure_ to avert his gaze from the engravings on the handles while he did. One _was_ missing. How odd. He'd pulled a single fine razor out and begun to flip its blade open when another door had caught his gaze - one slightly ajar. He'd approached the door and peered through the crack. On the other side had been a hallway with several doors branching off, one at the end also being cracked. His natural policeman's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and the young man had made his way down the hall to peer through _that_ door. Upon seeing a common bedroom through the opening - nothing out of the ordinary - he'd decided that the barbershop held far more promise of discovery, and turned about...

...only to find himself nose-to-nose with a very pissed barber.

Said man had only given him enough time for a startled "Wha-" before a hand had closed around his throat. He'd immediately been shoved unmercifully _into_ the partially open door, _through_ it, and slammed roughly against the opposing wall.

A moment later, the hold on his neck was mercifully released...

...to be replaced, with distinct threat, by an impossibly sharp razor-blade.

Which led up to the present moment, with Constable Ichabod Crane held at razor-point by a supremely pissed off barber mere feet away from the man's bed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" he who held the razor growled, pressing the blade tighter against Ichabod's throat and drawing a drop of ruby-red blood.

Ichabod's eyes were focused on the shiny razor for a moment as he drew a cautious, shaky breath. He saw his own fear-flooded face reflected in the mirror-like silver. The sight served to fortify him. He was a constable, after all! He was supposed to be brave! Hell, he _was_ brave! This was _not_ going to scare him, no.

The sight of the bright red drop of his own blood nearly sent the "brave constable" into a dead faint. He was forced to avert his gaze, lifting it instead to the cold face of the man who held him pinned.

He drew in a sharp breath, trying not to cut himself more but wanting to seem the strong, brave man that he was supposed to be. "I am Constable Ichabod Crane, and I am conducting an investigation," he returned, pleased with how stable his voice sounded. "You should know that it is against the law to threaten an officer's life or physical well-being."

"It is." The barber didn't seem particularly concerned. He leaned back slightly, still holding the razor to Ichabod's exposed throat, and tilted his head. His black hair was wild and unruly, with a silvery-white streak running through it. There was a slightly mad look about him, one that hinted of a man without anything to lose. "Now, Constable," he murmured, leaning in close so that the two were nose-to-nose once more, "the question remains: what the hell were you doing in my shop?"

The constable was offended. Had he not just explained this? Besides that, the man should have released him by now! Good Lord, had this man no sense, no fear of the law? "I already told you what I am doing here," he responded rather snappishly. "Now, I demand that you let me go, or I'm just going to have to place you under arrest for assault of an officer."

"Oh really," the barber murmured, smirking slightly now. He was enjoying his control, it seemed, especially as he pressed the blade harder against the younger man's throat, drawing another drop of blood. "I didn't think you could do much of anything, incapacitated as you are. And look..." One of his hands snaked down to remove the constable's small gun from his hip, swiftly unloading it and dumping the bullets onto the floor. "you even seem to be unarmed." Carelessly, he tossed the gun across the room. It hit the floor with a sharp _thud_ and skidded until it bounced off the wall, sliding back a few inches to sit uselessly in a corner of the room.

Beads of sweat appeared on Ichabod's forehead. This was not good, not good at all. "R-release me, uh-under penalty of l-l-law," he stammered, trying to keep his composure. His eyes slipped down to view the razor with increasing frequency, the sight of the blood nearly making him swoon.

"No." The barber moved slightly away again, glancing back towards the open door with a faint frown. It was in that moment that Ichabod noticed something odd about the barber - something very strange. The man had a long, straight, deep-looking scar across his neck, one that seemed fairly recent. It almost looked as though it might have been made by a razor...like the one in his own hand...

He had little more time to think about it as his captor turned back to him a moment later. The man's cold eyes raked across his body for a moment, sending a cold chill over the younger man. However, he didn't seem to be "admiring the view." Rather, the man seemed to be looking for something.

"Aha." He seemed to have found it as once more one of his long-fingered hands snaked down and snatched something from the constable's waist area. This time, he came back up with a pair of strong handcuffs...and an ominous grin.

The barber didn't wait for the constable to comply with his wishes. He simply released the pressure with the razor and flipped his prisoner without ceremony, then slammed him back into the wall again. A yelp and groan escaped the poor fellow, followed by another yelp as his arms were yanked behind his back and roughly handcuffed. The handcuffs were _not_ smooth, nor were they loose. They scraped and pinched his wrists, drawing blood within a matter of moments.

This garnered a smirk from the sadistic barber. He was almost transfixed by the sight of blood slowly spreading across the pale flesh and beginning to stain pristine white sleeves. He released the other man for a mere moment before shoving him onto the bed.

Without the use of his arms to steady himself, Ichabod fell face-first onto the rather hard mattress with another startled yelp. He'd never felt such dread and terror in his life. How the hell had this man managed to put him at such an incredible disadvantage? And what was he planning? He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to come up with a plan as he heard the barber's footsteps retreating. If the man left him alone long enough, he could get out of the shop. Once far enough away, he could get someone to unlock the handcuffs and...

Sweeney Todd, the barber who was causing such a disturbance in the constable's life, had no intention of leaving him alone long enough for escape. As a matter of fact...while he'd had the other man pinned, his demented mind had started down a train of thought that was undeniably tempting. The very danger of it, the forbidden nature, made it all the more appealing. Besides...every man has his needs. With Mrs. Lovett gone due to her _unfortunate_ accident with the boiler downstairs, he hadn't had his met in quite a while. And the idea in his head was far too good to resist.

He strode out of the bedroom and down the hallway, shutting the door behind him. He saw no need to lock it. That would happen soon enough. Instead, he headed straight for the main entrance to the barbershop. A closed sign was soon on the door, and the lock had been turned. With a far more leisurely manner, the barber now made his way back across the shop and through the door leading into the hall. This too he locked before proceeding along, now flipping his razor open and closed, open and closed, open and closed absentmindedly.

Ichabod cringed as the door opened once more. He'd just managed to get his feet under him and stand up on the floor again. Amazing how off-balance handcuffs made a man. When he turned to look at the door, he felt the cold knot of dread in his stomach tightening. The barber was locking the door, but he couldn't for the life of him see where the man had put the key. He couldn't reach the key to his handcuffs - he'd tried already and failed miserably, wasting valuable time.

The barber turned to face his prisoner with a slightly distant look that slowly turned to a grin. He suddenly fairly sprang across the room at Ichabod, drawing a short scream before he covered the chocolate-haired man's mouth with a calloused hand. "Ssh, now," he murmured, eyes gleaming with something terrifying. "Can't have the neighbors hearing you scream, now can we?"

Ichabod began to struggle, on inspiration biting the barber's hand. A yell gratified him, but only for a moment as anger sparked in the older man's eyes and he slammed the lawman onto the bed with a growl. His razor was at his quarry's throat a moment later, causing Ichabod to draw in a sharp, choked breath. "Stop. It," he commanded in a low, threatening voice. "If you don't, you will die. Do I make myself clear?"

A shaky nod answered him, and Sweeney let his gaze rake down Ichabod's body. His razor followed the path of his gaze, slicing through the shirt and coat the constable wore. Both soon had long slits down them, revealing the heaving chest beneath. The man's skin was pale, and smooth.

Another growl escaped the barber, and he sliced at the sleeves of the two layers with impatient abandon. The razor sliced neatly through the seams as he cut a path across the shoulders and down under the arms, successfully detaching the sleeves from the rest of the garments. His razor proceeded down Ichabod's sides, and a moment later he flung away the two halves of the front of the garment. He stared at the pale, heaving chest thus revealed for a moment, seeming transfixed.

Ichabod's breath was now coming in sharp gasps. He knew instinctively what this man planned to do to him, yet couldn't believe it. This was _not_ happening to him. It couldn't be. Words wouldn't pass his tight throat as he lay there, frozen by fear...and something else he couldn't place. Something...something.

The barber's eyes raked over the exposed flesh, lust glowing in their normally icy depths. He'd never even thought he could feel attraction (if this could be called that) for another man, but now that he was here, in this moment, it seemed perfectly natural and normal. A normal man, though, would have probably traced his fingers over the pale skin. Sweeney was not a normal man. His razor traced the path his fingers might have traveled, starting at the constable's chin and tracing down across his throat, past his collarbone, down the center of his chest - pausing there to meander around the slightly visible pectoral muscles - and finally down the barely-seen abs to stop at the top of his pants. A trail of blood marked the razor's path, gleaming scarlet against the nearly white flesh.

Another growl escaped Sweeney's throat at the obstruction the pants provided. His razor left Ichabod's slowly heating flesh to slice through the waistband of the pants. The barber was very, very impatient. His long fingers slipped beneath the hem of the garment, then yanked downwards. He slid the fabric roughly down the constable's legs, where he met the second obstruction of his shoes. The laces on those were quickly sliced, and shoes, socks, pants, and undergarments all came off in one pull.

Mortified, horrified, Ichabod sat straight up on the bed, stifling a yell that tried to emerge. The black-haired barber's head shot up, and another growl rumbled in his throat. His eyes were not fixed on the other man's face, however. Rather, they focused on something around the younger man's loins. When Ichabod followed his captor's gaze, he was shocked to see his own manhood standing rather erect.

Another growl from Sweeney followed that, and he lunged forward, pinning the other man down with his weight. His lips came crashing down on the constable's, crushing, bruising, rough, and his tongue forced an entry into the other man's mouth. The razor was still clenched in one hand, tightly, and he could feel his own erection straining against the fabric holding it in. He kissed Ichabod roughly, strongly, his tongue exploring the reluctant mouth and alternating with rough bites applied to the parted lips. The hand that didn't hold the razor made its way down the bare body roughly, until it found the stiff length of his prey. Long fingers wrapped roughly around it and squeezed, getting a moan from the other man. The barber took the opportunity to plunge his tongue in deeper, and was a little surprised to feel a reluctant response from the man beneath him.

Ichabod's hips bucked in response to the barber's rough grab, and he groaned again. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he thought, wondering with the part of his brain that was still sentient why he was responding like this. It was wrong, it was so wrong, it was... "Ah!!"

The hand on his length had tightened and slid down, sending a wave of sensation over the constable that he couldn't explain. As the mouth over his lifted, the tongue leaving, he thrashed his head back and forth, gasping out a rough, "Stop! St-st-stoooo...." that he was never able to finish completely.

Sweeney growled again, standing up and raking his lust-filled eyes across the length of Ichabod's body. He began to rapidly unfasten his own pants, shoving them off as soon as they were free and slipping out of his shoes. His own manhood was definitely large, and very, very erect. He paused a moment to strip the rest of the way, not really wanting any impediment to his enjoyment. He noticed the constable's eyes on his manhood, fear, surprise, and faint lust in their depths. A grin curved his lips up, and he crawled onto the bed with a low purr. Fortunately for Ichabod, the barber had enough sense to know that if he didn't have himself lubricated somehow, this would _not_ go well for either of them.

Unfortunately for Ichabod, Sweeney's method of lubrication was _not_ going to be to his liking. The barber stalked across the bed to grab his prey by the throat and yank him off of the slightly hard mattress. Sweeney straightened by the edge of the bed, now standing, and shoved the other man to his knees. The constable had no idea what was going on, but suddenly found himself on eye level with that large, erect, very male part of the other man. One of the barber's long-fingered hands dropped to the young man's shoulder and squeezed it painfully, gaining a yelp from him...which was exactly what he wanted. The barber immediately thrust himself into the other's open mouth, groaning and arching his back as he did so. Ichabod choked, startled by the presence of such a thing in his mouth and partially down his throat. The hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his head as Sweeney pulled out partially, then thrust back in roughly with a growl-like groan. He pulled out once more and thrust in, then stopped and looked at the other man, finding himself enjoying his own dominant position.

The barber then pulled out again and yanked Ichabod to his feet by his tousled hair. He was _not_ a gentle man, no. With a smirk, he shoved his prey onto the bed part-way, so that his legs were off and his chest on, exposing his rear very nicely. This elicited a smirk from the dominant man. Oh, how he liked being in control. A single thought made its way through his lust-clouded brain - asses weren't ready to be used without preparation. Accordingly, he bent over the other man, letting his loins press to Ichabod's bare thighs as he shifted his grip to the constable's cuffed wrists. The pinned man's mouth proved useful for lubrication once more, but this time of three of the barber's fingers. These he began to work into Ichabod's tight ass, one at a time.

The constable groaned and squirmed, half trying to escape and half wanting more. He could not fathom why his mind was working this way - it kind of frightened him. When the barber inserted the second finger, he could not hold back a moan as strange sensations rippled through his lower body. The two fingers scissored back and forth a few times, pulling a few more unintentional moans from the man they worked on, before a third and final one was entered. That one - now that one _hurt_. Ichabod yelped and tried to escape the pressure, not liking it at _all_ anymore. When the three fingers were removed and stayed out, he heaved a sigh of relief.

Sweeney growled at that and shoved the other man the rest of the way onto the bed before climbing on himself.

Ichabod's immediate instinct of trying to get back up served his captor well. The barber caught Ichabod mid-way into pushing himself up, in a position with his ass held in the air. Without a preamble, he grasped the constable's hips and pushed himself in with another growl, throwing his head back as he did so. Ichabod screamed in pain, the stretching almost too much - and he could've sworn something tore. Sweeney, however, didn't care, and started thrusting in and out of him rapidly, groaning and growling as he did so. He looped an arm around the younger man's waist and pulled him up so they were back-to-chest, giving himself more leverage to thrust.

The young constable's groans of pain were slowly turning into groans of something else entirely as he felt a strange feeling welling up in his body. A sense of pleasure was growing in his lower body, and he writhed in the other man's grasp, somehow wanting more.

The barber eyed the curve of the constable's neck and, with a low growl, slammed his mouth against it. He began to lick and suck and bite at the bare flesh, running both tongue and teeth across it and gaining a moan from his plaything as he continued to thrust in and out with increasingly harder, deeper strokes. Heat was flooding his body, and the constable's too. Sweeney continued ravaging his prey's neck with his teeth, drawing blood more than once in his lustful abandon. Ichabod longed to be able to do something with his hands, whether to stop the man or encourage him, but bound behind him as they were, they did him no good.

Pressure was mounting in the barber's body, and he bit down hard on Ichabod's neck as he felt himself growing nearer and nearer release. One of his hands slipped down to Ichabod's erect manhood and squeezed it hard, causing the constable's hips to buck against his hand as he groaned. Sweeney continued his rough squeezing in time with his thrusts as the climax built, finally releasing into a powerful orgasm. The feel of the barber's hot fluids pouring into him combined with the stimulus on his neck and the pressure the man was adding (to that very sensitive part of his body) sent the constable over the edge too with a short yell as his body convulsed and he squirmed.

Sweeney pounded in and out of him a few more times before finally pulling out, letting the younger man fall onto the bed with a groan. He regarded the constable with a speculative look as the pleasure gradually subsided, smirking to himself. That had really been all too much fun. He was just going to have to keep that fellow around, he was. Too good to lose.

As the barber stood and stretched, pulling his clothes back on after a few moments in a very routine, normal manner as though _nothing_ out of the ordinary had just happened, the constable lay unmoving on the bed. He'd come off of his own climax a few moments before, and now the shock of what had just happened was setting in. His eyes began to glaze over, and he squeezed them shut. He heard the barber's footsteps retreating, the creak of the door opening and closing, and the ominous _click_ of the key turning in the lock. He was trapped...destined for more of the same.

Ichabod Crane, constable and honorable man, closed his eyes in shame. He'd been raped, he allowed himself to realize with a shiver. Not only that...apparently, he'd enjoyed it. The young man shuddered and curled himself into a protective ball, tucking his head. This hadn't happened. This hadn't happened. It couldn't have.

But it had.

When he felt oblivion, exhaustion, creeping up on him, the American welcomed it. Sleep would give him release for a little while; make him not have to think about this. His body relaxed after a short time, and the abused constable drifted into a dreamless slumber where he could escape, however shortly, from the prison he now lived in.

Sweeney Todd, barber and murderer, sat in his shop, not feeling a bit of remorse for what he'd done. As a matter of fact, he'd brewed a bit of tea and poured himself a cup. Settled in his own death-trap chair, he sipped from the cup with all the dignity of a born gentleman. And he smiled.


	2. Chapter 2: Replacement

**A/N... **Thanks to those who reviewed and added this to their alerts! It's because of you that I decided to update this soon. Chapter Two was technically already written when Chapter One was posted up here, but as I am (unfortunately) quite slow in writing this tale, I had intended on keeping you ladies and gents waiting a little longer. I could not resist updating for you lovely people, though. Thank you again - reviews are addictive. This one isn't too terribly long, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

_Black Demon Cat - _Read on to find out.  
_Headcaase - _Ah, but Ichabod lends himself to such situations, does he not? Poor darling.

**Disclaimer:** As far as I know, I don't own Sweeney Todd, Ichabod Crane, or their respective movies, unless a relative I had no idea existed died and left them to me. Unlikely. I don't own Jack the Ripper either. I'm not sure I'd want to.

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**Chapter 2: _Replacement_**

When Ichabod Crane awoke, it was to pain throbbing all over his body. His shoulders positively _ached_ from the stress put on them, dried blood and harsh black-and-blue bruising covered the junction of his neck and right shoulder, his throat felt constricted and bruised, and his ass - his ass hurt the worst of all. It felt as though someone had tried to split him into.

With a miserable moan, the constable curled into a tighter ball around himself. He knew all too well where he was, and what he was doing there. He wished he didn't, wished he could block out what had happened. But he couldn't.

His mind was numb, numb in a way he was not accustomed to. It was blank, devoid of all thoughts, all emotions. In this void, he wasn't aware of his surroundings, nor of the passage of time. It was in this numb manner that he lay most of the day.

Mr. Todd, however, was distinctly unaffected by any such malady. As a matter of fact, the barber was remarkably cheerful - for himself, at least. The release of all that _tension_ the night before had really done him a lot of good, it had. Turned out, the constable had arrived late in the evening the previous night, and their "escapades" had taken up a good deal of the night itself. Sweeney had spent the rest of the night asleep in his barber's chair, though that simply wouldn't _do_ in the future. The constable would have to be moved to a different room unless he was wanted. Yes, that was how it would work.

For now, though, the barber had other, more pressing matters at hand...such as finding a replacement for Mrs. Lovett. Now that the woman was dead and gone (that unfortunate accident again - he'd really have to remember to warn the next fellow of how easy it was to slip and fall into that dangerous boiler, he would), he had no disposal method for the bodies. Sure, he could throw them into the sewer, but then they could be found, and identified. No, he simply _had_ to find a new pie maker.

The problem was not finding a pie maker desperate for fresh meat - the problem was finding one who'd turn a blind eye to where the meat _came_ from. He realized that might prove more difficult, and decided - with a remarkable amount of cheer - to devote the day to searching just such a one out.

Sweeney Todd donned a fairly nice coat (he had several - tossing them away after the victim was killed was wasteful, and we couldn't have that, no), ensured it didn't have any bloodstains, checked his appearance, and slipped a shiny razor into one of the deep pockets. The memory of that constable's gun crossed his mind (what had the fellow said his name was again? Something about Bird-Brain?), but the barber tossed the idea out. He preferred his razor infinitely more.

Of a sudden, something else caught his eye - a black top-hat sitting in the corner, by a cane. The two had belonged to one of his last vict - um, customers - and he found he rather fancied them. For the first time in quite a while, the barber did something on impulse. He donned the hat and picked up the cane. With a speculative look, he crossed the room and admired his reflection in a corner mirror Mrs. Lovett had acquired for him. He was surprised at how gentlemanly he looked - and he smirked faintly. Oh, he'd definitely be finding a new pie maker today. Oh yes.

That thought in mind and a very faint spring in his step, Sweeney strode out of the barbershop, letting the closed sign remain on the door. He had business to conduct.

Many hours later, footsteps (and the distinctive thud of a cane) approached the old pie shop, then _thumped_ up the stairs towards the barbershop. Keys rattled outside the door as a silhouette appeared, one holding a cane and wearing a rather stylish black top-hat. A few moments later, the lock clicked and the old door creaked open, swinging wide on its hinges. One Mr. Sweeney Todd entered the shop that he'd left earlier that day, closing the door behind him. He was ever-so-slightly less cheerful than he'd been earlier that day, but seemed satisfied as he propped the cane against the wall, shrugged out of the coat and draped it across a nearby chest (that had certainly had its uses in the past), and then set the top hat on the coat.

Sweeney busied himself setting the barber's shop to rights, a faint, almost non-existent smile curling the corners of his thin lips up.

He'd had quite a time searching out a suitable pie-maker. Men and women alike had come under his scrutinizing gaze, and members of both genders had been cast out. He'd even encountered and interviewed a fellow commonly called Jack the Ripper, the very one Detective Abberline had known all too well. The two had hit it off fairly well, he'd found the man's morals delightfully low, and they'd had quite a nice chat over tea in a quiet little shop. Despite his instant affinity with the other murderer, though, Sweeney had discarded the notion of hiring him. There was, after all, only room enough for one murderer in such a place. Besides that, for all the hype generated about the man, he hadn't been able to cook a lick.

In the end, he'd settled on a quiet, middle-aged man with a young, rather stupid wife. The little woman was pretty as she could be, and would easily forget anything she'd seen if presented with something sparkly. The two together seemed an excellent choice, as the man had quite a talent for baking (and the important quality of selective blindness), and his pretty little wife a talent for smiling prettily (albeit vacantly) as she served.

Sweeney was really quite pleased with his decision, when all was said and done. He had a new pie-maker, a replacement for the deceased Mrs. Lovett. He'd made sure to warn the man of the inherent dangers of slippery floors and falling in the furnace. It'd be a shame to lose the fellow so soon after hiring him, and he really had no wish to test his luck with another search. No one's luck was _that_ good.

He paused before the mirror in the corner, contemplating his reflection - specifically the scar running across his throat. Long fingers lifted to trace across the raised mark. A vacant, distant look came into his eyes as he stared at his reflection. The boy had made a nice cut, for sure. He'd almost died from the blood loss, and as much as he had wanted death at that moment in time, something had told him to live. Once his recovery was complete, he'd set out to find that loathsome boy...but he never had. He still didn't know what had become of Toby, and rather hoped he wouldn't have cause to find out.

The barber pulled himself away from the mirror. Too many memories rattled around in his head for such deep contemplation.

A memory assailed him, a fairly recent one, and he recalled the presence of the constable. Sweeney smiled faintly as he remembered the night before, and the incredible relief it had brought him. A repeat would be in order soon. But not tonight. It was now just late afternoon, and he needed a bit of fresh meat for the new pie-maker to work with tomorrow.

With razors dancing in his twisted mind, Sweeney Todd flipped the "closed" sign to a cheery "Open."

The constable, locked away in the sparse bedroom, slowly returned to reality. He didn't want to, not at all, but his body was protesting rather insistently that it needed to relieve itself. As much as he would have liked to remain where he was and let the hazy state of not-being replace any semblance of reality, Ichabod was forced to stand. He groaned in agony, closing his eyes for a few moments to try to recover. Oh, how he hurt. He wanted to just forget the previous night, erase it, pretend it never happened...

A chamber-pot was located conveniently in a corner of the room. Ichabod made his way over to it, painfully aware of the aches and pains in his body and the fact that he didn't even have a shred of clothing on his battered skin. If the room had had any windows, he might've had difficulty making it to the chamber-pot due to his natural modesty. Thankfully, it didn't, and he managed to relieve himself. That accomplished, he staggered back to the bed and sank down onto it. As hard as he tried, he couldn't force rational thought into his mind, and abandoned himself to the emptiness again. It was better than pain.

Two customers had made their separate ways into the barbershop in the course of the afternoon. One had emerged, having had an adorable little girl with him who looked painfully like another little girl who had walked that shop in happier days... The barber hadn't been able to hurt that man. The other fellow suffered a _very_ brutal death, due to the anger and pain the sight of the child evoked in he who wielded the razor.

Sweeney watched the man's wriggling corpse slide off the death-trap chair and down the chute, smirking faintly at the sickening _crunch_ it made when it hit bottom. That cheered him up considerably. He turned on his heel, letting the chair return to its upright state, and strode across the shop to the door leading into the short hallway.

It took him but a few moments to enter his bedroom. The constable didn't even twitch at his entrance, but lay there numbly in a loose ball. The barber frowned. He didn't want to spend the rest of the night in his barber's chair - it was quite uncomfortable for sleeping - and besides that, the constable looked simply _horrible_. It was one thing to see a corpse covered in blood, another entirely to see a live one with it crusted on and caked and matted and...ugh! Simply disgusting!

With a faint downward twist of his lips, Sweeney strode across the room and grasped the constable's arm. He pulled the smaller man roughly to his feet. He needed a bath.

This time, Ichabod came to a vague awareness of what was going on. His brown eyes opened weakly, and he lifted his bleary gaze to Sweeney's harsh, emotionless face. Though what the man had done to him registered in his foggy mind, he made no protest. He hurt too much. It surprised him when, instead of flipping him over and doing the same thing to him again, the barber pulled him across the room and out the door, then into another nearby room. In this one was a basin of water - cold, naturally - and a few washrags.

Sweeney watched the constable stumble in with an unconcerned look. He produced the key to the handcuffs binding the young man and unlocked them swiftly and without a shred of gentleness, then gave him a shove towards the basin. "Get yourself cleaned up," he muttered roughly, taking the cuffs with him on the off chance the constable would get his wits about him. Unlikely, but it was possible.

Ichabod was almost unable to figure out what to do with his hands - it felt like he'd been without them for an eternity. He leaned heavily on a (likely empty) cabinet present in the room, arms shaking from the strain. He heard the door close firmly behind him and shuddered, not liking the feeling of being so totally exposed. Another chamber-pot, much like the one in the room he'd been in a few moments ago, sat in a corner of the room. As soon as he saw it, Ichabod staggered over to it and wretched hollowly. Being a man, he had a bit of difficulty crying. Thus, his body found a different release.

He recovered after a few minutes, pushing himself to his feet. Using the cabinet for support, he stumbled over to the basin and picked up one of the rags. He began to weakly wash himself off. After a few swipes of the chilly cloth, he spotted a small bar of soap - a luxurious thing to have, for certain. A weak, wan smile managed to curve his lips up. He proceeded to finish his wash with the soap and water combined.

He felt far better once his wash was done, refreshed and a little less sore. Cold water was remarkably soothing on burning wounds. He shook his head, flinging little droplets of water around the room, then leaned back against the wall across from the door. He needed a plan. He needed to get out. There was no telling what that _lunatic_ might do to him if he stayed. There was no question about it - he simply _had_ to escape.

Now that the constable was occupied tending to himself, Sweeney was able to devote himself to other purposes - such as ensuring the downstairs apartment was ready to be occupied by the little couple that would soon be moving in. He cast a critical eye over it all, making sure that nothing that could point back to Mrs. Lovett or anything that had transpired down there between them remained. Once assured of that, he slipped into the boiler-room to strip and prepare his latest victim. The job was done fairly quickly, and the meat ground down into an indistinguishable mass. He'd speak with the fellow who'd be cooking later, just to make sure everything was in order.

With all those jobs accomplished, Sweeney returned to his barber shop. He'd check on the constable later. He had an appointment coming up with his new partner and his little wife.

* * *

**A/N...** I realize this is short, and I apologize. I'll try to make the next chapter longer, though I'll admit I'm not entirely certain when it will come about. Please review - I love hearing from my readers!


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